To Win
by AreYouReady
Summary: What was L like as a kid? Pretty darn scary.
1. Sugar Cubes and Psychoanalysis

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.**

A/N: to all the L fangirls who will freak out after reading this, I love him to death, I really do. But I am a bit sick of him being portrayed as nothing but Light-kun's yaoi darling, or as a flatly heroic creature. He is complicated and morally ambiguous in canon!

_However, it has come to my attention that the L of this fic could be tagged evil!L or sociopathic!L, so be warned. This L is not nice._

Sugar Cubes and Psychoanalysis

Quillish Wammy liked to think of himself as a philanthropist.

He donated money to charities quite frequently, and he even had his own orphanage. It was an orphanage for gifted children, so that every one of them could reach their full potential. Quillish wanted to raise these kids to help humanity. He spent much of his time at the orphanage, baking for the children, or teaching inventing classes. He would also often search for orphans who showed unusual intelligence. After all, most gifted kids were not easily recognized.  
But one day, on February 28th, 1984, he heard a rumor about an orphan who was not only gifted, but above prodigious. This orphan was living in a police station, having just solved the case of an elusive serial rapist. So he decided to research this child a little before walking into the police station to meet him. The kid's mother's name was Inama Lawliet. She was half French, half Japanese, and before she died, she'd taught French at a Japanese university. She had apparently wandered, dazed, with a head injury, into a Japanese hospital, just before giving birth. There had been complications, and she'd died shortly after. However, she had managed to name the child, or, at least, give him an initial: L. That was his name. The identity of the boy's father was more difficult to come by. After several days of extensive searching, Quillish still hadn't managed to find out who Inama's boyfriend/husband was. Until it occurred to him. And sure enough, the very same rapist that the child had just caught had attacked Inama, while she was vacationing in England in 1978.

Quillish was growing more and more interested in this orphan. How had he gotten from the orphanage in Japan where he'd spent his first few years? How on Earth had he caught that criminal? What was he, that he could do such things at four-and-a-half years old?  
Quillish decided that he needed to go to see the kid for himself.

"My name is Quillish Wammy, I run an orphanage for gifted children near here." he introduced himself to the secretary at the police station.  
"Are you here for an appointment with the chief?" the secretary said, his voice bored.  
"Ah... Yes. Yes I am." Quillish replied  
"Her office is that way," the secretary said, pointing down a hallway. Quillish walked where the finger pointed. At the end of the hall was a door emblazoned with the words: "Chief Catherine Daily"  
He knocked on it, and a female voice said: "come in!"  
He entered and said "Hello, I run an orphanage for gifted chil-"  
"Are you here to take him away? Please tell me yes, please!" she interrupted.  
"Ah... I guess so?" he replied, wondering what could possibly cause the woman to sound so frightened.  
"Oh thank God," she said, "come with me."  
He followed her out of the office, and through a few corridors. She introduced herself as the police chief while they were walking, and he introduced himself as well. When they finally arrived at a door, she said: "He's in there. I won't come in after you if he drives you insane."  
Quillish wondered what she meant. The phrasing sounded as though the child were simply annoying, but the fear in her voice when she'd said it made him wonder if she meant it literally. No matter, he could deal with smart kids, he spent most of his time doing just that. So he knocked on the door.  
"Enter." said a voice, whose youthful highness gave the lie to its cold formality. So Quillish did. The room was lit with fluorescent lights, strewn with books, and the walls were completely white, except for a small stain on one. In the room's center stood a single chair, in which crouched a young child, sucking his thumb. The child had a shock of tangled black hair, incredibly pale skin, and unusually large, piercing black eyes. He was also painfully thin, and dressed in dirty rags.  
"Hello L," Quillish began, in his gentlest voice, "I-"  
"You are Quillish Wammy, the man from the orphanage for gifted children. You have come to take me there." the boy cut him off. The statements were spoken in a cold, flat voice, as expressionless as L's face.  
"Yes, I am." said Quillish, now quite uneasy.  
"Those were not questions. And in preemptive answer to the question you are about to ask, yes, I would like to come to your orphanage. It has an 8% chance of being able to fulfill at least some of my educational needs, which is higher than anywhere else in this country that might possibly allow a child of my age in." L said, still in that creepy monotone.  
"Alright, L. Then… Come with me." said Quillish, trying to suppress the growing feeling of unease he had surrounding the possibility of spending any more time around this uncanny child. L hopped out of his chair, and Quillish was glad to see that at least he walked with the normal, shuffling gait of a four-year-old. He put his hand in Quillish's, and allowed the man to lead him away.

When they got to the car, there was a problem. Namely, L categorically refused to sit in the normal position in his car seat.  
"If I don't sit like this, my deductive powers decrease by 40%. No, I will not sit normally." said L.  
"But what if we get in a car accident? You must sit like a regular child and wear a seatbelt." Quillish said.  
"Quillish," said the boy, "I can still wear a seatbelt when sitting like this, and my chances of survival in an accident are only lessened by 2%. I will sit this way. That is final."  
"L-"  
"That is final." the words were spoken without emphasis, still in a monotone.  
"Alright," Quillish said. He helped L into a car seat, buckled him in, and got in the driver door. As soon as he pulled onto the road, a voice came from the back seat:  
"You were a soldier," said L, "in World War Two, perhaps? You look about the right age. You're quite rich, and but not old money, or if you are, the fortune you started with is modest compared to the one you have now. You think of yourself as a good guy... A philanthropist? Yes, definitely. Hmm. You engage in philanthropy because... You did terrible things in the war, and want to atone..." L trailed off. Suddenly, he asked: "Why won't you play? No one can win if you won't play. The police officers didn't try too hard to win, but at least they played."  
"What do you mean, 'play'?" asked Quillish.  
"I mean you speak as well."  
"And what do you mean, 'win'?"  
"Well, when I won against the police officers, most of them just left, looking horrified. One of them killed himself, though, and no one would talk to me after that." L pouted a bit.

Quillish almost crashed the car. He resolved, from that point on, not to talk to the kid any more than strictly necessary. Burning curiosity was a small price to pay for keeping his sanity. And some of the kid's guesses were disturbingly close. He _had _been a soldier of sorts, though not in World War Two, and he _was_ quite rich, but from a modest background. He did think of himself as good, and he was trying to fix some things from his past…

But how had this four-and-a-half-year-old talked someone into insanity? More importantly, _why_? Was it some sort of twisted enjoyment? Or curiosity? Neither of those sounded quite right.

So Quillish drove to his orphanage, pondering the motivations of the young psychopath in the back seat of his car, while that psychopath tried to pick apart his mind.

When he arrived at the gate, and was getting out of his car to open it, a terrible thought occurred to him. What would L do to the other children? If he could damage an adult mind, what would he do to the fragile psyche of a young orphan? Quillish did not want to find out.

"L," he began.

"Yes?" asked the boy.

"There will be other children at the orphanage. I'm going to have to ask you not to hurt them."

"What do you mean, 'hurt them'?" L cocked his head to one side, looking genuinely confused.

"I mean, don't do to them what you did to the police officers, and were just trying to do to me."

"Alright. Why not? I was just winning. If they lose, they lose."

"It hurts them psychologically. It isn't good to hurt other people."

"Yes, but they _lost_." L said as if that were the most important thing, the only thing that mattered. Quillish realized that this wasn't going anywhere; L's thought process was too different than his own.

"Just don't do it, alright?"

"Alright."

After making all the necessary arrangements, and informing most of the staff about the dangerousness of their new charge, Quillish led L to a currently unoccupied bedroom.

"This will be your room, unless you want a different one." He said.

"It is sufficient." L replied, gazing about at the sky-blue-and-dolphins-themed room.

"Good. Before I go, do you require anything?" Quillish asked.

"Hm. Actually, yes. Do you have any _kakuzato_?"

"_Kakuzato_?"

"I don't actually know the English word for them, I cannot find it. You know, the white, sweet, grainy, three-dimensional squares?"

"Oh, sugar cubes. Yes, we have some of those."

"Could I please have some, then?"

"What for?"

"To eat, of course."

"You can't just eat sugar cubes, that's incredibly unhealthy!"

"I can, and often do. Could you please get me some?"

"No. You may eat real food if you are hungry, but you may not eat sugar cubes. A staff member will be in shortly to get you new clothes. I will see you later, L."

"Hm. See you later Quillish." Said the boy.

So Quillish left. After about five steps down the hallway, he realized that L would probably just torture whoever was sent to take care of him into getting him sugar cubes. He decided to warn the staff.


	2. Social Behaviors

Disclaimer:

I own not a hair on Lawli's adorable head.

Nor do I own the rest of Death Note

Social Behaviors

Just before dinner that night, Quillish rapped on L's door.

"Yes?" came the young, cold voice.

"L, it is dinner time. I am going to bring you down to the dining room, and present you to the other children." Quillish said.

"Alright, I'm coming," L said, sounding slightly muffled. The door opened, and Quillish saw the source of the muffling: the boy's mouth was full of sugar cubes.

"L, why do you have sugar cubes?" then he noticed something else. "And why are you wearing pajamas?"

"The lady who came in to take care of me gave them to me." L said.

"Which, the sugar cubes or the pajamas?"

"Both."

"And why did she give them to you?"

"I asked her for them, and I kept asking. She gave in."

"Hm," Quillish said, suspicious. He doubted L had been so nice. "Come along then," and he led the young boy in pure white pajamas down the corridor.

The dining room of the orphanage was quite large. It had to be in order to fit the three hundred odd orphans, of all ages, that lived within Wammy's House. When Quillish and L entered it, almost no one had arrived for dinner yet, so its hugeness was all that more distinct. L blinked up at him.

"Now that we are here," said L, "I would like to know what this means, 'present me to the other children'."

"It means that I stand up and introduce you to everyone, and they all come to greet you." Said Quillish.

"Why would they do that?" asked L, head tilted to one side.

"So that they know who you are. So they can put a name to your face."

"Hm. I do not understand why this would be a desirable situation, but it has few disadvantages, so I will submit to this arrangement."

"Good. Now-" Quillish started to say '_will you sit normally at the table?' _but was drowned out by the dinner bell. The low vibrating chimes were loud enough to make him wince, and judging by L's reaction, they were much worse for the boy, with his keener hearing. L was crouching, hands firmly over his ears, face contorted. The bells stopped ringing, and the boy looked at him accusingly.

"Quillish, what was _that?_" L asked, voice still monotone, though slightly strained.

"The dinner bell. It rings to tell everyone to come eat." Answered Quillish.

"Why must it be so loud?" asked L.

"So that the whole orphanage will hear it."

L rubbed his ears. A few moments later, the door opened, and the first stream of children entered.

"Mr. Wammy!" came the collective cry, and they swamped him, engaging in what was more of a pileup than a group-hug. As the first few neared Quillish, L sprang backwards several feet, in what Quillish would have called a panicked motion had the boy's expression not been perfectly calm. "L, what are you doing?" he asked, as orphans continued to crowd around him.

"I do not enjoy the company of those my own age." Again the monotone was strained, as though masking actual discomfort.

"Then you're out of luck, young man." Quillish smiled gently. L shot him a poisonous look just as one of the girls clinging to Quillish's leg pointed to the new boy.

"A new kid!" shouted a boy, and some of the crowd around Quillish dispersed in favor of investigating L.

L backed away from the other orphans as they approached him, firing questions such as "what's your name?" and "how did you end up here?".

"Quillish," L said, the boy's voice almost losing its monotone indifference, "please call them off. They are approaching uncomfortably close to my person."

"You must learn to be with your peers, L." said Quillish, still smiling. Perhaps a little social contact from his own age group was all the little boy needed to make him more normal. That thought was erased nearly as soon as he'd had it, however, for at that moment, a little girl reached out and touched L's arm. L's foot snapped out, almost too quickly to see, and connected with her ribs. The little girl fell backwards, and began to bawl.

"L!" Quillish spoke angrily to the boy as he rushed to the side of the little girl. "How dare you! At this institution, violence will not be tolerated against anyone, _especially_ your fellow orphans!" But then, with a sinking heart, Quillish looked around at the other children. They were backing away from L, leaving him alone, as he'd wanted. The boy would learn the wrong lesson from this.

"It was self-defense. She initiated an attack on me, I defended myself." The boy's voice had lost its strain, and Quillish knew he was right. He sighed inwardly.

"L, she wasn't attacking you. _She just touched your arm._"

"They were attacking me. All of them."

"They were just being social. It is a normal human behavior."

"So is violence. That does not make it good."

"L… you need to be social. It is a basic human requirement. You have to at least try."

In reply, L fell to the crouch that seemed to be his most comfortable position, and shielded his face with his arms.

"No." came the high, monotone voice. Quillish sighed.

"It's time to eat. Children, go sit." He waved towards the long, low tables decorating the floor of the hall. Wammy's House housed orphans until age eighteen, but the teenagers could stand sitting at a slightly lower level than normal to accommodate the young ones. "L, look at me. They're gone." Said Quillish, to the unresponsive, white pajama'd boy. Nothing. "Look at me." He said again. Nothing. "Come here, you need to eat." Nothing. Quillish began to walk away, steps slow and deliberate. Still nothing. He turned around, and picked to boy up. L was limp, not resisting, simply not responding. Quillish carried the boy over to an empty chair, sat him down, and put a plate of food in front of him. The boy slumped against the back of his seat, not supporting his own weight. Quillish put his face in his hands. He waited until the meal was almost over before trying to awaken L one last time. Dessert was being served, and he grabbed a slice of strawberry cake, hoping to get the boy to at least eat something. When he placed the plate carrying the cake in front of L, the boy blinked once, pulled himself into his customary sitting position, and fell on the sweet. The cake was gone before Quillish could say _'eat some real food first.' _L immediately grabbed for another slice, and before Quillish could stop him, he finished that one, too. The plate on which the cake sat was decoratively garnished with strawberries, and Quillish watched as L picked them up, one by one, and popped them in his mouth. Then L took another slice of cake, and devoured it just as he had the first two.

"That's enough, L, you shouldn't eat that much sugar, it will make you sick." Quillish said.

"Will not." L said, still somehow managing to maintain the monotone, even with his mouth full.

"L, stop." Quillish said firmly, placing a hand on the boy's arm as L reached for his fourth slice of cake. In answer, Quillish got a set of small teeth biting into his wrist. Quite hard. "L, stop." He said again. The boy did not let go. They stayed like that, L's teeth sunk into the flesh of Quillish's wrist, until most of the children had left the dining hall. Then Quillish said, "L, come on, you need to go to bed."

L released his arm, and followed him, wordlessly, back to the small blue bedroom.

They stood in one of the orphanage's many bathrooms.

"L, you must brush your teeth," Quillish said, expecting the boy to resist. To the man's shock L did not.

"I have no toothbrush. Can you provide one?" said L.

"Here," said Quillish, reaching into the bag of new toothbrushes in the cabinet of the bathroom. He handed it to L, and, without further prompting, the boy put toothpaste on it and stuck it in his mouth.

"You may go, Quillish, I can put myself to sleep." L said, gesturing towards the door. So Quillish exited the small bathroom, wondering what on earth could be done about this strange boy.


	3. Entertainment and Ambition

**Disclaimer: I am not Kira. Therefore, I do not own Death Note**

_A/N: To Whom It May Concern:_

_I am sorry. I have been praying to the gods of plot all week, and they have sent divine revelation down from the heavens: this story is a prologue. I'm sorry, but that's what it is. It isn't going to have a huge amount of plot, or character development, (although there will be some), because those bunnies are being eaten by "_Above and Beyond_", the story for which this one is a prologue. There will still be plot and development, though, just not as much as I had hoped. Dear reader, I hope you may forgive me for this grievous waste of your valuable time._

Entertainment and Ambition

After the dinnertime display, Quillish could not, in good conscience, send L to classes with kids his own age. But L had to be taught. That amazing intellect could not be wasted. He considered placing L in high school level classes, but decided against it. The Wammy's House high school level teachers were not prepared for the young psychopath, and who knew how L would react. After a few days of searching for some solution, Quillish grudgingly gave in to the idea that had first occurred to him: private tutoring for the boy.

So, the teacher of each class that L wanted to take got paid a little bit of overtime in order to teach the little genius. L took his classes at night, went to bed late, and slept late. By the end of a few weeks, L's tutors were exhausted, and not just from their late night schedules.

The science teacher, a woman named Amanda Baker, came to him first.

"Mr. Wammy," she said, as she sat in his office.

"Please, call me Quillish," interrupted Quillish.

"Quillish, then. Look, Quillish, I'm an elementary school science teacher. I've taught your 'L' boy everything I know. He needs a tutor on the high school, or even college, level." Baker said.

"Alright, Amanda, I shall get him one." Quillish said.

"And… Quillish… he won't tell me anything about himself, even his real name. What the Hell _is_ he? I've taught prodigies – I work at an orphanage for genii – but I've _never_ taught anyone like him. He's not just smart, he's also… not normal. What _is_ he?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you. I really would. But he won't tell me anything either." Quillish massaged his forehead.

"Well, I'm glad you're changing his tutors. I can't keep teaching him. No way. Thanks, Quillish."

Quillish had similar conversations with the rest of L's teachers in the subsequent week. Soon, L was being taught at the high school level in all subjects. Quillish was worried that the boy would run through his education so fast that he would run out of things to learn by the time he was six. At least he seemed not to be ripping through the high school classes quite as fast.

On June 11th, a bit more than three months after Quillish had found L, there was a knock on his door.

"Come in," said Quillish, absently. He was working on a letter of apology to a family whose window was broken by some unruly orphans who had thrown a ball through it. He was expecting an applicant for the newly vacant "Vice-Head of Administration" position.

What he got instead was a four-and-a-half-year-old with an agenda.

"Quillish," said L.

"What do you need, L?" asked Quillish, tiredly.

"I wish to visit Gary Milov in prison."

"Who's Gary Milov?"

"The criminal I caught."

"Why?"

"That is for me to know, until I wish to inform you."

"What are you going to do?"

"Have a conversation with him."

Quillish resignedly followed L into the visiting area of the prison where Milov was serving a life sentence. L seemed to recognize the convict waiting for them. He led Quillish to a table, where a man was already sitting. L sat right down and said,

"Gary Milov?"

"That's me. Who're you?" replied the man.

"Your son," L said.

"I don't have a so- wait…"

"You are a serial rapist. You must have expected that you would sire some offspring."

"Jesus Christ! You're a kid! How do you even know what rape is?" Milov was beginning to show the customary confusion of any normal person exposed to L.

"That is unimportant. My mother was Inama Lawliet, and you attacked her on December 26th, 1978. I have come to say something to you: in the game between us that you started at the moment of my conception, you are in a state of checkmate."

Milov opened and closed his mouth, slowly. "Quillish, let us go," said L.

As they were driving back to the orphanage, Quillish asked L,

"Why did you do that?"

"It is good to inform those that play a game of their standing in that game." L replied.

"Crime isn't a game!" said Quillish.

"On the contrary, Quillish, it is the most dangerous game. Those that play often die, lose everything, or go to jail. Those that gamble with such high stakes… someday, I would like to play against them."

"What do you mean?"

"My ambition is to become a detective."

"A noble goal, L."

"Is it?" the boy crouching in the car seat looked at Quillish, face blank. "I don't believe so. It is hardly 'noble' if one's sole intent is to entertain oneself."

"That would be you only goal?"

"Essentially."

"Then why that particular line of work, why not one with less lives at stake?"

"Human lives are the currency that I gamble with, Quillish. Besides, there is not much, besides detective work, that can hold my attention for long."

"So, the only way to make you care is to play Russian roulette with the lives of innocents?"

The boy just shrugged in response. Quillish wished he was not driving, so that he could put his face in his hands. "L… that's not healthy." He said, at last.

"I am a genius. I am so far above those around me that they cannot comprehend it. That sort of situation is not conducive to good psychological health."

"Ah…"

"Yes Quillish?"

"That doesn't worry you?"

"My psychological state is quite stable, and is unlikely to change, either for better or worse. I have my current brand of strangeness, and am unlikely to develop a new one."

Just as L said that, they arrived at the orphanage. L unbuckled his car seat and hopped out, walking swiftly back to the orphanage building. L was not inclined to spend much time outside. He preferred to stay indoors, reading books so far above his age level that Quillish wondered how he'd learned enough to comprehend them.

Quillish wondered what on earth he could possibly do with this child.


	4. Plans

**Disclaimer: Still not Kira!**

_A/N: Sorry I didn't post a chapter last week! It's a long, complex story involving traveling, writer's block, and power outages, which you don't really want to hear. Also, sorry this chapter's so short, but the next part really deserves its own chapter. You'll see why._

Plans

L did not often play like a normal child. Usually, when he wasn't supposed to be doing anything, he either read or slept. So when Quillish was called to help stop an incident in the yard, he did not expect L to be at the center of it. He certainly did not expect to see L being chased by a pack of older boys.

It was November, a little while after L's fifth birthday. There were intermittent patches of snow and ice on the ground, and it was sometimes difficult not to slip. Quillish was passing by the door to the outside, on the way to his office, when a child, perhaps seven or eight, dashed in and said,

"Hey! Adult-people! Some poor little kid is getting bullied by George an' his gang!"

"Where?" said Quillish.

"In the yard. Go stop 'em, Mr. Wammy!" said the child, whose name was Robert. Quillish dashed out of the building, to see that Robert had been correct. George Allaines, Carl Tott, and Quinn Belbatire, a trio of teenagers rarely seen apart from one another, were chasing a small, black haired figure, which was holding some sort of paper.

"Hey you," Quillish called to the boys, running toward them, "George, Carl, Quinn! Stop doing that!"

They paid him no heed, continuing to chase the younger child. Suddenly, their victim put on a burst of speed, and swerved around some invisible obstacle. The three pursuers put on speed as well, but did not swerve. Less than a second later, one of them – George – slipped. The invisible obstacle was apparently a patch of ice, and there was a sickening crack as the boy's head hit a rock. The younger child stopped and looked back, and now Quillish was close enough to see that it was L. The other two teenagers went to their fallen comrade.

"Oh God!" yelled one of them, Carl. "There's blood! And… Oh dear God help us, is that… is that his _brain?_"

"I think I'm gonna be sick…" said the other, Quinn. He knelt down to check George's pulse, then gasped. "I think he's dead."

"You little bastard!" screamed Carl, voice tearful, "you killed our friend!" he tried to resume running after L, but slipped, coming down hard on his knee. He screamed.

"I did not kill your associate," said the familiar monotone, creepy, as always, coming from the mouth of one so young, "he simply made a series of unfortunate choices, resulting in his own death."

By this point, Quillish had reached the site of George's fall. It was gruesome. His head had hit a rock and caved in. blood oozed out of the cracks in his skull, and little bits of brain had been extruded out the sides of where the rock had penetrated. He was certainly dead.

"All of you, come with me, we're going inside." Quillish said. When none of them moved, he said, "Now."

"I'm not sure if I can walk," said Carl.

"I'll carry you, then."

So Quillish hoisted Carl up into his arms, and Quinn and L followed him as he went inside.

After he'd called an ambulance for Carl and George, Quillish sat Quinn and L down to ask them what happened.

"They knocked down an intricate structure that I was constructing out of sugar cubes, in the kitchen. I retaliated by stealing this, it seemed quite precious to them." L said, holding up a pornographic magazine. Quinn turned red. "They chose to pursue me in order to retrieve it, and also probably to cause me physical pain in retaliation." L continued. "I did not wish for this to occur, so I chose to win the game by luring them outside and causing them to slip, which I reasoned would cause them to cease their actions against me."

"L," said Quillish, "did you just say that you intentionally injured two boys because they _knocked down your sugar sculpture_?"

"They began the game, I simply escalated. Besides, it will make sure they do not do it again. I did not mean to kill one of them, though. Mild injury would have been sufficient." Quillish could hear the indifference in L's voice, and it sickened him.

"L, you are confined to your room for a month. With no books." Said Quillish. L looked horrified, but did not comment. "Quinn, is the story he told true?" he asked the other boy.

"Yes," Quinn ground out, glaring vicious daggers at L. Quillish couldn't blame him. The little boy had just admitted to a level of malice that few would have thought possible in a child his age. And this malice had caused the death of Quinn's friend.

"L, I need to speak with you. Quinn, go get some hot chocolate and warm up." Quillish said. Quinn left the room rather eagerly, and L and Quillish were left alone. "L, why do you do things like this?" asked Quillish.

"I prefer to win. As to why I escalate, I am bored, Quillish. There are no games that I have access to whose stakes are high enough to rivet my attention. So I have to raise the stakes myself." Said the boy.

Quillish had nothing to say. L seemed to have such a twisted, skewed world-view that he couldn't see that what he did was viciously wrong.

"Go to your room," said Quillish at last. L complied, and Quillish went out to meet the ambulance, which had finally arrived. Only half of his mind was on his conversation with the paramedics, however. The other half was working frantically on the conundrum of what to do with L. Perhaps some psychological therapy? He should at least be brought to a psychiatrist who could diagnose whatever was wrong with him. But what if that didn't work? He seemed to need constant, interactive, challenging entertainment. How to keep him from boredom? Then Quillish remembered what L had said about his ambition to become a private detective, and he began formulating a crazy plan…


	5. Surrogates and Studies

**Disclaimer: Ryuzaki, I'm really offended that you think I could be a murderer!**

_A/N: Again, my sincere apologies for skipping a week. I try to be punctual, but I was, yet again, traveling; not to mention, this chapter has been jumping through hoops to avoid being written. Truly. I have been afflicted with monstrous writer's block._

_Also, I have finally remembered to thank all of my wonderful reviewers! _

_**So thanks, wonderful reviewers!**_

_Sorry that I don't usually respond to reviews, I just don't generally think of it_

Surrogates and Studies

It was late in January. Quillish was, by now, familiar with the knock on his door. It was soft, but confident, a small _tap-tap._ It tended to come whenever he had done anything that was of interest to a certain five-year old genius.

"Come in, L," he said, hoping that this wouldn't be too trying. The small, white-clad figure entered the room, staring up at him intensely through a curtain of unruly black hair.

"You have been making alterations to my course of studies," L said, with not so much as a greeting. "You have been including forensic science and criminology in much higher proportions than in a normal education, especially at my current level. Normal high school curriculums do not include much of that sort of thing. Explain."

Quillish blinked. L had spoken very fast, and it took a moment to process his information. Then he sighed. This was what he had been expecting.

"L, you said you wanted to be a detective, right?" he said.

"Yes," said the little boy.

"Well, you need to learn those things to be a detective, so…"

"Hm. It is as I thought, then. You are attempting to entertain me adequately to prevent any more incidents like the one in November."

"Yes…" Quillish said, feeling a little awkward that a five-year-old could guess his motivation so easily, even if it _was_ L.

"How do you intend to get people to trust a child with detective work?" L asked, cocking his head to one side.

"I don't know." This had been the flaw in Quillish's brilliant plan to keep L occupied. The boy was still just that – a boy. And even if Quillish knew better, no one in their right mind would trust a child-detective. Quillish didn't know, but maybe someone else did. The boy was brilliant, after all. "Maybe you could figure out a way?"

"Hm. I shall work on it." L said, and walked out of the office without dismissal.

He walked back in about five minutes later. "A go-between," he said, as usual, without preamble.

"What?" said Quillish, who had been deep in his thoughts.

"I could utilize a go-between, someone who could claim to be solving the cases, while in actuality, I did the work. I care nothing for credit; I just want to solve puzzles."

"Hm… okay…" said Quillish.

"So, when I am prepared to become a private detective, I will be able to act through a surrogate." L stated.

"Who do you plan on using?" asked Quillish.

"I don't know. Anyone who is moderately intelligent, a good actor, and willing to accept my abilities would suffice. Even the intelligence is unnecessary, if they are willing to wear a wire and an ear piece." L said. Quillish thought about this. It would probably be best to conceal L-as-detective from as many people as possible. Besides, there was a promising new hire, Roger Ruvie, who would be taking over most of the paperwork Quillish did in a couple of months, so…

"I could be your go-between," he said.

"Hm. This would be an advantageous situation, certainly. Even optimal. You would definitely make a good surrogate." L said, his face taking on the slightly-daydreaming look that Quillish had come to interpret as happiness. Then L turned around and left the office, again without dismissal. The boy really needed to learn some manners if he was ever going to function in the real world. Of course, he would need a lot more than manners to function in the real world. He would need some major psychological help, and just in-general some metaphorical house-training. Quillish had no idea whether L would even be receptive to psychological help; the boy had demonstrated that he believed that his own psychological state was, if not normal, acceptable. There was nothing that Quillish could think of that might get L into a shrink's office. Except…

"Now remember, L," Quillish said, as the two of them waited in the office of a child psychiatrist, "you agreed to this. If you don't cooperate, I won't act as your go-between."

"Yes, I am aware," said L, giving Quillish an extremely innocent look. That, Quillish knew, was a bad sign. His stomach started to twist.

"Mr. Wammy?" said a young woman, who had just emerged from the inner office, "Dr. Strice is ready for you and, um, _L._" She beckoned. So Quillish and L followed her to a comfortable room, in which sat an older woman with gray-streaked blonde hair, a stern face, and rather formal clothes.

"Mr. Quillish Wammy? I presume you are this little boy's father?" she said, as the nurse left the room.

"You presume incorrectly. He is simply the head administrator of the orphanage at which I reside." L said, before Quillish had even opened his mouth. The woman blinked.

"Wait just one moment. Why on earth is he talking like that?" she said, again directing her question to Quillish.

"I am a genius and a prodigy. I currently pursue academics at the high school level. I am also quite a bit more intelligent than most adults." L said, again replying before Quillish could.

"And more rude, too, it seems," she said, finally speaking directly to L.

"You should observe yourself before drawing that conclusion, Dr. Strice. Most people consider it rude to talk about someone in the room as if they are not there." L retorted. Though his face and voice stayed blank as ever, he radiated annoyance.

"But dear," she said, seeming to slip into the persona of the kindly and condescending child's physician, "this is grownup talk. There are some toys over there. Why don't you go play?"

L stared at her for a long moment, before walking off to build something from the blocks in a little pile on the floor nearby.

"Gosh," she said, turning back to Quillish, "well, he's a piece of work."

"You haven't seen the half of it," replied Quillish, burying his head in his hands.

"What do you mean?" asked the psychiatrist.

"If you want to know, ask him about the incident in November, or Gary Milov, or the police officers, or just talk to him for a few minutes. He's a pretty scary kid." Quillish said.

"Alright. Now I believe it is time for the session. Quillish, if you could please leave us?" Dr. Strice said. So Quillish complied.

As he sat in the waiting room, he hoped in vain that L would play nice. Of course, the hopes were dashed once the psychiatrist came walking out of the office, about thirty minutes later, with shaking hands.

"Are you alright?" asked Quillish, worried that L might have done lasting damage.

"I'm fine," she said, voice calm, "your boy was just trying to push my buttons."

"Good. Do you have some sort of diagnosis for… _whatever it is_ that's wrong with him?"

"A basket full. He has pretty obvious and severe antisocial personality disorder, an open dislike, and secret fear, of other people, and a pathological need to dominate. And that's just what I got from twenty minutes." She said.

"Treatable?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, I doubt it. I'm sorry, but he's just so completely sure of himself that I doubt he would be receptive. Anyway, if you want him treated, take your business somewhere else. I'm sorry, Mr. Wammy, but I don't want that child anywhere near me. It must be terrible to be his caretaker."

"Alright. Thank you Dr. Strice. Good bye," Quillish said, and he went to get L out of the office and bring him home.


	6. Future Employees

**Disclaimer: I. Am. **_**Not. KIRA!**_** *punch***

_A/N: The writing of this chapter is brought to you by chocolate milk. Lots and lots of chocolate milk. Also, I am currently wearing a tee-shirt with the "_evoLution" _graphic on it. Google it if you don't know what I mean._

Future Employees

By six months after that first experience with a psychiatrist, Quillish had taken L to numerous others. Their diagnoses varied: often it was Asperger's Syndrome, or Antisocial Personality Disorder, but occasionally it was some other illness that Quillish knew nothing about. The various psychiatrists only had one thing in common when it came to L: they never wanted to see him again. So, he decided that this time, it would not be L coming to him, but the other way around.

_Knock. Knock._

"Enter," came the youthful voice, whose cold monotone was still surprising, despite the fact that Quillish had been familiar with it for well over a year now. Quillish opened the door to L's small, solitary bedroom. The boy was crouched in an oversized, puffy armchair; one hand delicately holding a book, the other clutching an icing smeared fork. There was a plate of cake on a small table beside him.

"L," said Quillish, "I need to talk to you."

"Go on," said the boy.

"We made a deal. I would only be your go-between if you cooperated with the psychiatrists." Quillish said.

"And I went to all of their offices and talked to them." L replied.

"Yes, but you didn't really cooperate. You scared every single one of them enough so that they told me to take my considerable finances elsewhere." Quillish said.

"Hm. So I must find another surrogate. This is acceptable." L said.

"So the idea of really cooperating is really so terrible?" asked Quillish.

"Correct. If this is all you've come to say, then you are dismissed, Quillish." L said.

"_I_ am dismissed? I am not some kind of butler, L, you don't speak to people that way!" said Quillish, but by the time he'd finished, L had shut the door in his face. Perhaps he should simply deny the boy cake for a week, and see if that might keep him from acting that way. Actually, that was a pretty good idea, now that he thought about it.

Two weeks later, at the end of July, Quillish was interviewing a new applicant for a caretaking job. The woman's name was Carla Sorolin, and she was quite young, 24 years old.

"I just love to help people," she said, as they walked around the grounds, which was where Quillish liked to conduct interviews. It always made the interviewee less nervous.

"What do you mean?" asked Quillish, trying to discern if she was just using the generic line to get the relatively well-paid job of "Wammy's House Childcare Attendant." Of course, it was well-paid because the children were high maintenance, and Quillish wanted to keep the environment as positive and conducive to development as possible, which meant it required a lot of work, but few people stopped to think about that.

"I always have. Even when I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor, or a cop, something that would be at least a little altruistic. But I don't like science enough to go into medicine, and it would just be too sad to be a cop, and I love kids, so I thought I'd do this instead." She replied.

"Too sad to be a cop?" he asked.

"My coworkers would die, some cases go unsolved, some police departments are corrupt, that sort of thing." She replied.

"Alright. But why work here?" he asked. She looked down.

"I need the money," she said, "My mum's sick and my dad's dead since I was little. I'm an only child, too. I gotta support her."

"Hmmm. I guess that makes sense. Do you have any experience with extremely gifted children?" he asked.

The interview, in general, went well. She did have some limited experience, and an extremely admirable work ethic. She was also, it seemed, good with kids in general, judging by the glowing letters of recommendation from the directors of several nonprofit preschools and daycare centers she'd volunteered at. She was definitely a hire. He didn't notice a tiny, black-haired figure following them around the grounds.

A week later, she was a member of staff. After her first day, she came into his office.

"Mr. Wammy," she said, "your orphanage is wonderful. It's just what all these poor little kids deserve. But did you know that the staff sometimes bully the children?" Carla asked.

"What do you mean? Tell me about this!" he demanded, worried.

"I mean, there's this one kid who they treat like he has the plague or something. All the other kids do too. It's so mean!" she said.

"Who is it?" asked Quillish.

"Umm, he calls himself by a nickname, I don't know his real name." she said.

"I know all the children, including their nicknames. Tell me!" he said.

"L. They all seem to dislike him, but he seems perfectly sweet to me." She said.

"Oh… what do you mean he seems perfectly sweet? How did he demonstrate this?" Quillish asked, confused.

"Well, he offered to share his cake with me, and he showed off a big tower of sugar cubes he was building, all cute and proud, and then he clung to me for the rest of the day." She said.

This set off alarm bells in Quillish's head. L had never before acted so out of character. He had to have some sort of agenda.

"Normally he isn't like that," he said, "L actually is his real name, by the way. Normally, he's… he doesn't act like a child. He acts like an adult, a very intelligent and… _cruel_ adult." He said.

"Huh," she said, "I just can't imagine him being like that. I'll keep an eye on him, but I think you're wrong, Mr. Wammy." She said, sounding determined. They continued to chat a little, and eventually, she left to go home for the night. Once she was gone, he called L to his office.

"What are you doing?" asked Quillish, once L had sat down in the chair on the other side of his desk.

"What do you mean?" asked L, looking very innocent.

"Why are you being nice to Carla all of the sudden?" said Quillish.

"I am simply trying to be nice and learn manners, as you want me to. I am doing it to Carla because everyone else already knows me, and would suspect me of something. She's a clean slate." L's voice was his usual monotone, but his face had the tiniest of smirks playing around the mouth. It was not a good sign.

"L, what are you planning? How is she useful to you?" asked Quillish.

"Nothing." Said L, but the smirk widened. The little boy left the room, as usual, without dismissal, but Quillish was used to that. He put his head in his hands. What was L plotting to do now? Why did he need Quillish's innocent new hire?

_A/N: What's that I smell? Plot? Oh my god, I just saw a pig fly past the window._


	7. Fakes and Observations

**Disclaimer: *gets kicked in the face***

_A/N: Holy crap. Just holy crap. An __**early**__update. I think I might die of shock._

Fakes and Observations

In September, Quillish looked at the calendar and realized something. L had not caused any kind of trouble for a month, nor had he stopped being nice to Carla. There was something very, very wrong. So Quillish decided to observe the boy.

Quillish sat in the main playroom, watching the children play. Well, watching one particular child play. And what he was doing could actually be called "playing" without the sense of danger one usually felt from associating _that_ word with _that _child. L was building a tower of blocks, and then knocking it down. Carla stood over him like an overprotective mother. Recently, the genius child and the young altruist had become inseparable. The other children still kept their distance from L, having learned their lesson many times over when they approached too close, but they did not shoot him nearly so many nervous glances. It was, over all, a completely different atmosphere than a month ago. Maybe L wasn't planning anything after all?

But then Quillish saw proof it was all fake. L flashed Carla a big, childish, beaming smile. The only expressions Quillish had ever seen on L's usually expressionless face before were confusion, disappointment, and a tiny smirk. L did not ever smile. But what was he planning?

The familiar knock on his door the next day brought the answer.

"Come in," said Quillish, and L entered the room.

"Quillish," said L, "what arrangements have you made to increase the amount of detective work in my training?"

"None, yet. You need a new go-between, remember?" Quillish answered.

"Ah, but I have one," said L, and the tiny smirk was back, "she's quite willing to start any time, and she did actually get a detective license before giving up on law enforcement."

And it clicked. That was why L was being nice. He needed Carla, and had realized that he wouldn't get her if he continued to act the way he usually did.

"You're going to use Carla as your surrogate." Quillish stated.

"Why not? She is the perfect candidate, and she dropped right into my hand." L shrugged.

"But…" Quillish wanted to object, Carla was just so young and sweet, and L was being so manipulative, but he couldn't think of a valid reason to tell L he couldn't use her.

"You can't give me a reason not to." L said. "Now, please increase the detective training part of my curriculum."

"Alright," said Quillish, in defeat, "but keep playing nice."

L turned around and left without another word, a curt nod his only assent.

And he did. He continued to be nice to Carla, and not to antagonize the other children. So Quillish increased the amount of detective training. And shortly before his sixth birthday, he was ready. Quillish expected the familiar knock on the door, and so he was surprised that when there was a knock, it wasn't L's.  
"Come in," he said.

"Hello Mr. Wammy," said Carla, "I wanted to ask you something. Little L says that he wants to be a detective, and that you two discussed this, and that he's already trained, and that he wants me to be some sort of go-between so that he can do it now. Is this true?"

"Completely. L and I have been discussing this for over a year. He's trained, and certainly intelligent enough, he would make an exceptional detective." Quillish said.

"He's a _little boy!_" Carla almost shrieked. "How can he be a detective? He's too young, he couldn't handle law enforcement! It's too… too… serious!"

"Surely he supported his arguments with the accompanying facts when he told you about this," said Quillish, surprised that L had not covered this crucial detail.

"He told me some ridiculous lie about how he caught a rapist when he was four." Carla said.

"He was four and a half. That's how I discovered him; I heard a rumor about a detective prodigy." Quillish said.

"But there's no way he even knows what rape is!" Carla said, looking desperate.

"I assure you, he does." Quillish answered.

"Hm. May I be dismissed now, Mr. Wammy?" said Carla.

"Alright, Ms. Sorolin." Quillish said.

The day before L's sixth birthday, Carla registered as a private detective. L's birthday present was his first case.

Quillish decided to check on him after he'd missed dinner. There was a special birthday cake for him, and he hadn't shown up to eat it.

So Quillish knocked on the door. There was no answer. He could hear L shuffling around in the room, though, so he knocked again. No answer. Finally he just opened the door.

L was crouching in his usual position on the floor, lollipop in one hand, pencil in the other. Papers from the case file were scattered all around him, in haphazard piles which looked like they were organized in a way that the person organizing them could understand. He scribbled words on a few of the papers from time to time, and he mumbled constantly to himself in an unintelligible mixture of English and Japanese.

"L?" Quillish asked. The boy did not respond, look up, or even twitch to acknowledge that he had been spoken to. "Hello? L? Can you hear me?" he tried again, with a similar reaction from the boy. L shuffled a few of the papers, and continued his scribbling and mumbling. Quillish put a hand on the little boy's shoulder, and still nothing. So he decided to just sit and watch L work.

It was fascinating. L occasionally transferred one paper to another pile, and then shuffled through a completely separate pile to retrieve something else. All without stopping the constant stream of bilingual musings. It should have been mind-numbingly boring, but Quillish could tell that he was watching a genius in his element, and the energy L exuded was electrifying. It made Quillish want to go invent things, despite the fact that, other than for classes, he hadn't touched his workbench in years.

All of the sudden, late into the night, L blinked. He pulled several different papers out of different piles, scribbled something illegible across them, and then began to put the papers back into a pile. He put them back into the folder from which they apparently came, and stood up.

"How're you doing, L," asked Quillish, suppressing a yawn.

"To utilize an ancient, but still appropriate, cliché, _eureka._" L replied in a voice that suggested he was only half there. The daydreaming expression on his face only supported this theory.

"You made a breakthrough?" asked Quillish.

"I solved the case. It's a cold police case, so the evidence is all there; it's just that no one could make the connections. I did that for them." L said, still seemingly not quite there.

"Well, Carla can bring it back to the police tomorrow. In the meantime, you need to go to bed." Quillish said.

"Yes," said L, "Good night, Quillish."

So Quillish left, pleased that L's talents could be used for something… _good._

_A/N: Well, that was a warm and fuzzy chapter, with way too much of my OC. Don't worry, guys, it'll go back to humorously sort-of-dark next time. And have less Carla. Probably._


	8. Revelations

**Disclaimer: I'm not Kira, and kicking me won't change that!**

A/N: I received a rather belated birthday present from a friend today. I am now the proud owner of a cosplay death note and an L plushy. Yay!

_In other news, ignore the author's note on chapter three. It is a lie._

Revelations

By January, Carla was becoming well known as a private detective, and working with many police stations. The stream of unsolved, and occasionally challenging, cases, was keeping L occupied.

But there were complications.

She was not allowed to take more classified cases, because she always had to remove the case file. Many government officials wanted her to take those cases, too, but of course she could not. So Quillish waited, patiently, for the knock.

It came on January 21st, just as Quillish was going to go home for the night.

"Hello, L," said Quillish, as the door opened.

"Quillish," said the boy, and waited. L did not usually acknowledge him before getting to the point. Something was going on, here.

"Yes?" said Quillish, now exceedingly curious.

"I know you are technically skilled, and an inventor. I need a particular piece of technology, built to my specifications." L began.

"What do you need, L?" asked Quillish.

"I need a phone, with an untraceable and blocked number, a manner of identifying the callers, and voice modification built in." L said. Quillish put two and two together.

"You're planning on revealing that Carla's a go-between." Quillish said.

"Correct. Will this be possible? How long will it take?" L asked.

"I can do it. Pretty quickly, probably. You do realize phones cost money, right, L?" Quillish said.

"You do realize I take money for my detective services, right, Quillish?" L smirked

"I did not." Quillish said, raising an eyebrow.

"Hm. Anyway, I have a steady income more than sufficient to afford a phone. The matter is settled. Deliver the phone to me when it is complete." L said, and walked out.

So, in the spare time he had, Quillish purchased a phone, bought extremely expensive untraceable and blocked service for it, and began to modify it. He built in a voice modifier, and recreated a recently invented technology for identifying the numbers of callers. It wasn't actually that difficult, and he was done in less than a month. So he installed it in L's room. But he was curious what the reaction would be to this reveal, so he gave L one condition: he got to see it. L agreed.

So, on the evening that L had chosen for the reveal, the special phone was on speakerphone. And Quillish was in the room.

"Hello," said L.

"Who the Hell are you?" said the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis, (the police commissioner of London, and the highest-ranking policeman of Britain).

"I am the one who has solved all cases passed to miss Carla Sorolin. She is currently the only one in possession of this number, so I assume she dialed it for you. If so, she will have already explained this fact to you." Said L.

"Sorolin did do both of those things, but my question was, who _are _you?" said the commissioner.

"My identity is classified. You may refer to me as L. The important thing is that Sorolin is a go-between, and that I cannot solve any cases that she cannot bring to me. Those cases will either have to be released into her custody, or remain unsolved. Please spread this message as widely as possible among law-enforcement agencies and officials." L said.

"Classified? Classified by who?" said the commissioner.

"That information is also classified." L said, and hung up before further questions could be asked.

"That was interesting," commented Quillish.

"It was as I expected. The message will be spread; my skills are highly respected and coveted among the law enforcement agencies of this country." L said.

L, as usual, was right. The message reached all the necessary people, and Carla bought back the very first classified case on February 28th, 1986.

After this, Quillish received several months of peace and quiet from L and Carla. It was not until June that any incident involving L disturbed the peace of Quillish's life. And it was not L, as usual, but Carla, who came to him.

The knock on the door was tentative.

"Come in," said Quillish.

"Hi Mr. Wammy," said Carla as she walked into the room.

"Hello, Carla," he said, and waited.

"Ummmm…" Carla said, "I don't know what to do…"

"About what?" asked Quillish.

"L wants to start taking international cases! I don't speak any other languages!" she said, sounding quite distressed.

"Don't worry, Carla," said Quillish, "a lot of people from other countries speak English, especially government officials, and there are a lot of English speaking countries. You can get by."

"Hummmm… okay…" she said, "But how will we get known internationally?"

"I'm sure you already are. Don't worry, Carla, everything'll be fine." Quillish said.

"Thanks, Mr. Wammy," she said. He dismissed her, and she left.

Then he got curious. Just how true was what he'd told Carla? He knew it had to be a little true, or he wouldn't have said it. But how far did L's reputation go?

Quillish was widely traveled. He'd been to quite a number of countries. And he'd made friends internationally. One of the ones he kept in regular contact with was a French police officer, by the name of Honoré Laurent. So Quillish called him up. After a few minutes of small talk and casual conversation, Quillish brought up the topic.

"Honoré, do you know anything about L?" asked Quillish.

"Elle? Which Elle?" Honoré asked.

"L, the private detective, the one whose been solving impossible cases all over Britain for the past few months?" Quillish said.

"Oh, that L! I've heard of him. A lot of high up officers wish he would go international; Britain's not the only country with difficult cases that need solving." Honoré said.

"Interesting," said Quillish.

"Why do you ask?" asked Honoré.

"I've just been hearing rumors about him, and I was wondering if he was international, or just in Britain." Quillish said.

They continued their conversation, about various topics, for a good while, but Quillish had learned what he needed to know. L was a precious commodity, even internationally.

_A/N: Fun Fact: in the Mangaverse, the universe I use, Light was born on 2/28/86. _


	9. Worry and Paranoia

**Disclaimer: I don't care if you "wanted" me to be Kira! I'm _not._**

A/N: My school starts this week. I will try to keep on top of my schedule, but may not be able to. I'm also switching updates to Saturdays, as Sunday is homework day.

Worry and Paranoia

Even though he had already achieved his goal of "Great Detective," L reserved one hour a day for studies. He was around college freshman level. One evening, in the summer of 1986, L came to Quillish to request changes in his curriculum.

The Knock came. L entered Quillish's office.

"Quillish," the boy said.

"Yes, L?" asked Quillish.

"I need foreign language tutors. I intend to begin international work soon, and having a translator for everything I and the other party say would not only be an annoyance, but also a security risk. I require the services of any foreign language teachers in your employ. Excluding teachers of my native language, of course." L said.

"Alright. During your usual hour?" Quillish said.

"No. I am ceasing detective work for several weeks to accommodate much longer lessons." L said.

"Okay, then. I'll assign you tutors for every language we have." Quillish said. L nodded curtly, and left the office.

About a week later, Quillish heard an enormous crash from the orphanage library. Or rather, a series of crashes so close together that they sounded like one long crash. Quillish jumped up from behind his desk, and rushed out of his office.

He arrived, panting, at the library moments later, to a scene of carnage. A bookshelf had apparently tipped over, and taken the others with it like dominoes. That wasn't supposed to be able to happen. These bookshelves were bolted down for safety.

Quillish immediately began searching among the book-filled wreckage. It was lunch hour, so he didn't think anyone would be in the library, and if they were being crushed under books they would probably be screaming, but they might've been knocked out. You never know.

Other orphanage employees showed up about a minute after he did. The librarian was out for lunch, and his office was almost next to the library. They asked him what happened, and when he explained, they began to search the destruction with him.

A few minutes later, it was ascertained by the group that the book avalanche had squashed no one. Then began the arduous task of putting the library back together. Quillish applied himself to it for about an hour or so, then began his own task: figuring out the cause of this mess. When he examined the bolts of all the bookshelves, they appeared to have simply been ripped out by the force of becoming a giant domino. The first "domino," however, had seemingly had its bolts completely removed. Someone had done this intentionally. Quillish wondered indignantly who would pull this malicious and sociopathic prank. And then he realized.

Who was sociopathic enough to pull this sort of prank? Who was infinitely amused by all sorts of trouble? Who was not currently working, and so would be bored out of his mind?

Quillish set out to confront L.

He knocked on L's door, and was greeted by the usual,

"Enter," L was on the floor, surrounded by books full of Chinese characters. "Yes, Quillish?" he said, not bothering to look up.

"L, did you cause that mess in the library?" Quillish demanded.

"What happened in the library?" L inquired, still not looking up.

"Someone unbolted the bookshelves, and they imitated dominoes. Did you do it?" Quillish asked.

"That's unfortunate," L commented, sounding supremely unconcerned.

"Did you have _anything to do with it?_" asked Quillish, trying to get past L's evasions.

"No, I did not." L said, finally deigning to look at Quillish.

"Hm." Said Quillish. The boy could be lying. But he could also be telling the truth. There was no evidence that he did it, he was simply the most likely suspect. Quillish decided to go with L's story until he had some kind of evidence. "Alright then. Sorry, L. Goodbye." He said, and left.

But who had taken the bolts? In the next few days, he searched all over the orphanage for them. He even searched the orphans' rooms. Even L's. He found the bolts nowhere. He began enlisting the help of some staff.

Until one day, he found the bolts in his locked desk drawer, where they had not been the day before. That was just a mean mindgame. Not fair. And it had L written all over it. but still, no evidence. He went so far as to dust the bolts for prints, but they had been wiped completely clean.

His gut said _L, L, L, L, L!_ and Quillish put his head in his hands. Living with that child had made him so _suspicious_…

But the mystery stayed unsolved, and Quillish eventually forgot it.

A few weeks later, when L announced he'd be going back to work, Quillish breathed a sigh of relief.

When L got his first overseas case, he decided to see Carla off at the airport. So, he needed someone to drive him home. "Someone" meaning "Quillish," of course.

So Quillish tagged along behind L and Carla, as they crossed the airport to the gate.

When Carla reached the point at which only actual flyers could continue, she bent down, picked up L, and _hugged him._ Quillish imagined that either L would fight the embrace like a wild animal, or demonstrate foresight, and accept the hug without a fight, so as not to be dropped. Never in a million years had he expected L would _return_ the hug. But return it he did.

"Aww, I'll be so worried about you!" cooed Carla.

"Unnecessary. Good luck, Carla," said L, in his usual monotone, seeming not the slightest bit annoyed.

"Aww, thanks. Be a good little supergenius while I'm away!" said Carla. With that, she entered the part of the airport that the rest of her group could not, and L and Quillish set off back to the car they'd come in. L looked at Quillish with a slightly pained expression.

"Does she not realize that both she and I, and, at slightly larger intervals, you and she, will be in regular contact?" L asked.

"She does, she was just being sentimental," Quillish replied. He was still slightly shocked by the hug, and L's general niceness towards Carla, so he added, "you hugged her,"

"Yes. It is a display of affection, is it not? And I do regard her with some affection, the way one might regard an… exceptionally stupid hamster." L replied. Quillish thought about this. He laughed inwardly at the hamster comparison. It was just so rude, and yet it was quite kind, coming from L. As the two continued, Wammy's House-ward bound, Quillish mulled over this strange development.


	10. Distractions

_A/N: Bad AreYouReady! Very very bad! Update faster!_

_Also, this fic keeps changing plots mid arc. Majorly. I hope it doesn't come through too much. Does it?_

_Dang, it's late to start writing a chapter. Why is it so late? _

_Oh yeah, because I wanted to feel like less of an a**hole for abandoning my wonderful readers._

_So I wanted to give you a chapter._

_And I'll have a special apology policy: every review of this chapter gets a reply._

Distractions

It was November of 1986, Quillish was pleased with his life. L was so completely occupied with international cases that he rarely left his room. Carla, on the other hand, was regularly in touch, and the two of them spent hours discussing a variety of international issues between Carla's meetings on behalf of L. Carla also seemed pleased with the arrangement, enjoying the exotic locales she was thrown into, even though her work was exhausting. She confessed to him that her only dissatisfaction was that she couldn't speak a word of the local languages of the places she went. Quillish assumed she would pick up a little of the more common ones eventually, though, so he wasn't too worried.

Overall, everything was peace and quiet. Well, until the day after the first snowfall. Then, one of the children went missing. A nine-year-old boy named Gary. Orphanage workers, including Quillish, searched high and low for him, and eventually called in the authorities. The next day he was found locked in a closet, but otherwise seeming no worse for wear. However, he had no memories of the day before, and a blood test confirmed he had been sedated. How had this happened? And who would cause it? The police speculated that it might be recreational drug use, and the child might have locked himself in, but that didn't seem right. The boy was nine years old! Besides, the closet had been locked from the outside.

So Quillish decided to consult the Wammy's House resident detective. He knocked on L's door. But there was no customary answer of "Enter." Perplexed, Quillish knocked again. And again, there was no answer.

"L?" he said through the door. Nothing. Fearing that whatever had befallen Gary had also befallen L, Quillish opened the door. He was confronted with a scene from a nightmare. A _bureaucrat's_ nightmare, to be precise. Papers were spread all over the floor in a mess that radiated outward from its center point: a small child with wild black hair, white pajamas, a pale face, and extremely dark circles under his eyes. Quillish did not remember those being there before. "L-" he started.

"Quiet," L said in a strained monotone, "I must concentrate."

"L!" exclaimed Quillish, horrified, "When was the last time you slept?"

"Two days ago," replied L, "I am quite adept at pretending to be asleep when your little child-minders come to check on me."

"That is not healthy! You are going to bed right now, this instant!" Quillish said.

"No," replied L.

So Quillish picked up the little boy, who thrashed, bit, and kicked like a wild animal, but was still only six, and couldn't do much damage. He tucked the glaring L into bed, and called one of the nurses to watch over him, to make sure he stayed there.

But that left consulting L on the case of the mysterious disappearance and reappearance of one of the orphans out of the question. Without genius help, Quillish had no idea where to even begin his search for a culprit. But before he could even think about it, another emergency arose. He should've known that the long peaceful spell was just the calm before the storm. An attempt had been made on Carla's life.

In fact, someone had, luckily inexpertly, planted a bomb in her hotel room. She had managed to find it, get out, and warn the hotel staff about it before it went off, but she was quite scared by it. So she was flying back to England, and coming home to Winchester. Quillish decided to pick her up from the airport himself.

"Hi Mr. Wammy," Carla said, as she stepped into the car.

"Hello Carla," said Quillish, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just… jumpy. A little scared. I'm perfectly fine, all things considered. I just… want to take a little break, not be in the line of fire for a while. Not have a sniper hired by the rich family of someone L caught hiding around every corner." She said.

"Well, I should hope that there will be none of that at Wammy's. Welcome home, Carla." Quillish said.

"L seems to be annoyed at you about something, though. Tell me what it is, he's pretty hard to annoy."

"He wasn't sleeping. So I have a nurse watching over him to make sure he sleeps."

"He _what?!_ Why wasn't he sleeping?" Carla exclaimed, horrified concern in her voice.

"He was working so many cases that he apparently had no time to sleep."

"Jesus. Well at least you're making him."

They passed the rest of the ride in silence.

When they got back, Quillish went back to his office. There, he found a string sticking out of his locked desk drawer. Curious, he unlocked the drawer, and peered inside. The string was tied around the neck of the neck of a bottle. A bottle of a liquid sedative. The same sedative that had been used on Gary. Quillish felt a sense of déjà vu. This was disturbingly similar to the case of the domino library shelves last summer: no motive and no lasting damage, just stress, extra work, and worry for him and the rest of the orphanage staff. And mind-games, for him alone. Again, he dusted for prints only to find nothing; they had been wiped away. He was about to go consult with L on it, but a familiar knock made the point moot.

"Come in," said Quillish.

"Ah, Quillish, I have a favor to ask you," said L, tiny smirk already in place on his lips.

"What would you like, L?" Quillish asked.

"Well, Carla _is _incapacitated, and I can't be a detective alone…" L said.

"Get on with it," said Quillish refusing to make the connection L was implying.

"You don't want me getting _bored _again, do you?" asked L.

"No, God no." Quillish said.

"I thought not," L said, smirk widening. "I need a reserve go-between, Quillish. You're the perfect candidate."

_A/N: I have forgotten how to characterize Carla over the hiatus. Of all the characters, it's my OC who gets the OoC treatment. Wow._


End file.
